Mute
by writershreyac
Summary: Things change but scars remain. Words can hurt you beyond repair. But can two sworn enemies reconcile over shared moments of silence? A dramione through and through. Complete. Wait for the sequel "Chase"
1. She is Mute

Things change but scars remain. Words can hurt you beyond repair. But can two sworn enemies reconcile over shared moments of silence? A Dramione through and through.

* * *

_**Disclaimer**_: I own nothing, but my thoughts, the rest all belong to J K Rowling. My mind lives in the Harry Potter fanfiction world though my body is still thankfully anchored in the monotonous reality of existence. My themes, plot line and story line may therefore get indirectly influenced by many of the brilliant fanfiction writers in this site. And I humbly bow to such creative genius who give me much needed literary pleasures to see through the toils of mundane life. Lastly, I don't have a beta, so please be merciful. Reviews would encourage this introvert writer to peep out of her literary closet.

This little snippet was bothering me, and hindering my imagination, which were supposed to be focused largely on a rather large tale, I am trying to tell. Therefore, sharing it here, so that it leaves the confines of my bothered head. If you wish me to continue, say so, and I will.

* * *

**Chapter 1**

**She Is Mute**

_Hogwarts,_  
_Months after war_

Hermione never felt this lonely. Sitting here. At the dead of the night. Resting her body on the cold stone wall of an aclove, in a deserted corridor, cold, only thin worn out pajamas below her school robes. Her head touching the cold windowpane, the iron bar, digging an indentation on her forehead. Cold.

Yes, the first year, the first few months, the taunts, the urge to prove herself, the girls' gossips, the lessons, the professors, the castle and mostly the Library- everything was overwhelming. Then the two dolts, Harry and Ron, she smiled at the word _dolt_, friends, who lived through war, and killed a Snake faced evil wizard- have come and altered everything in her sorted out and ordered life. That was for the last seven years.

Now, things were back to being quiet, settled and scheduled. No Harry and no Ron, to disturb her lessons, her school life. Her specially granted 8th year. She was not the only one returning. There were other heroes and heroines of war. And there were other shamefaced, defeated legions from the other side, returning as well. And there was him.

MUDBLOOD

She traced those words once again, over, and over, her index finger. repeating the motion. These days she wore long sleeves. These days, she plastered a smile on her face, these days, she preferred the silence of the library, to the rest of the celebrating castle. These days she was fascinated with the potion knife she carried in her standard potion kit. These days, she would desperately find a hiding place to get away from jovial faces when the convulsions threatened to crack open her happy mask.

But how did that happen? How did she, a Muggleborn, remain untouched by a multitude of those devious spells and curses? While many of those capable purebloods and half-bloods, wizards and witches died. Their blood was still keeping the Hogwarts grounds moist, just a few layers below those springtime grass blades.

MUDBLOOD

The lone index finger tracing over the raised scar tissue, jagged and malicious, evil, repulsive. She had told Harry and Ron, when they have apologized for that mark. "That is a battle scar I will proudly wear." They don't know, and she will never tell them about the one that runs from the left underside of her breast down to the edge of her right hip. She knew, she was told again and again, she was not beautiful. And she knows, she will never be, never at least to the eyes of a man. What happened between Ron and her? A series of unrequited emotional exchanges- crush, infatuation and affection, mistaken attraction. And the kiss? That cleared any and every residual doubt. A Weasley and A Granger was surely not going to date, not going to get married and have a dozen babies.

MUDBLOOD

The index finger was now aching a bit, the palm was getting a bit stiff, with the odd way the other fingers were bunched up within it. He was the first person to mention that word to her. With that little alabaster face and those silver blonde strands of hair back swiped, perfectly gelled. Not one strand out of place. Whereas, every single strand of her bushy, uncooperating mane, was a walking and perhaps, even talking (when her brain was overrunning at times) disaster. So many hairbrushes had died battling through them!

MUDBLOOD

Her wrist had started aching now. She had used that wrist too easily, learning spells, inventing spells, stirring potions and supporting the spine of heavy tomes while she lost herself scanning them for references. She had used it took fight, to climb and to kill. She had used it to form a hard fist and punch him.

MUDBLOOD

That word had echoed in her head, danced on her ear shells, mocked her wisdom and her birth. That single word had pushed her, even beyond her capacities, to become the brightest witch of the age. But the word only echoed in the tone of one voice. His voice.

MUDBLOOD, MUDBLOOD, MUDBLOOD…

Then why?

Why did things have to change today?


	2. He is Mute

Things change but scars remain. Words can hurt you beyond repair. But can two sworn enemies reconcile over shared moments of silence? A Dramione through and through.

* * *

And, finally, let the drums roll, -**Mournfulseverity** has officially accepted to be my Beta. We stay in two opposite halves of the world. So, my typos will vanish only after the sun rises on her side of the globe. I am still finding my way through this site.

* * *

Disclaimer: I tried and tried, hard to write something else- but this Dramione was too stubbornly lodged at the tip of my pen. The Harry Potter world, belongs to JKR. My mind lives in the Harry Potter fanfiction world though my body is still thankfully anchored in the monotonous reality of existence. My themes, plot line and story line may therefore get indirectly influenced by many of the brilliant fanfiction writers in this site. And I humbly bow to such creative genius who give me much needed literary pleasures to see through the toils of mundane life.

* * *

**Chapter 2**

**He is Mute**

_Malfoy Manor__  
More than a year ago_

The Dark Lord had been most disappointed. That was the lightest way to use the word. Draco Malfoy chuckled humorlessly. The shivers had minimized to occasional trembling. His mother though, he did not know. The last he saw of her was in father's arms. He was trying his best to lead her out of the destroyed living room. Her entire body convulsing, his father holding her tighter.

" Crucio".

He knew that spell since he could walk. His father's special form of punishment, if he dared to put his foot out of the line even for a fraction of a second. With the years, that special punishment had simply grown, both for the amount of time he was meant to be under it and in its intensity. And he had hated _her_ the most. Because she was the reason he suffered.

He had first seen that wild bushy haired short girl, jumping on platform 9 ¾. And had chuckled to himself. Later she had been forthcoming in introducing herself. Draco had started scribbling her name to keep a tab on those he would specifically choose to be friends with. He needed a clear picture and then plan. A Malfoy must make sure to keep the best of the lot by their side. He had written her first name and then had just written "G"- before realizing the chatting, bumbling dictionary of facts, the buck toothed, short girl, was a Muggle. NO, father was most insistent, that he used the world "Mudblood". He had all but, rudely tossed the girl out of his compartment. Made fun of her and laughed at her, even drawing in his pureblood friends into the jest.

All she had left behind was a "G".

And every year that "G" had tortured him, kept him awake. Made him work hard. Made him push his boundaries. And of course, he hated her so much, that he would disparage her, mock her and call her names, sully every single thing that made her who she was. Those idiots she had started calling friends, stood up for her. But he would never forget, that stubborn chin tilting up in defiance, that straightening shoulders, that slight shake of her head and those burning eyes, threatening to cry in humiliation, yet, not a drop spilled out.

She got petrified, even though she was the first to find out how to tackle the lurking beast. He was awestruck. When she would relay every information to his godfather in the potion classroom, he would in turn sit back baffled at how much that puny girl could retain.

"G" would always come before "M" in the merit list at the end of every academic year. He would watch "G" covertly, through the stacks of old arithmancy books. He would simply stand there quietly watching how she gnawed her lips red, at being unable to solve a problem. And how slowly her head would get lost behind those heavy tomes she kept piling one above the other.

He thought her to be slight, and "G" punched him like a giantess. He thought she could only mug up and vomit on the papers, her intelligence made him eat his own words.

He had started doodling "G" on parchments and at the edge of his textbooks. Rather an elaborate pattern, twirling and swaying with the flutter of pages.

Today, "G" along with her side kicks had broken the Dark eaters resolve. They had kicked at and stamped their feet on their purity claims and supremacy propaganda. They had broken free, from the Dark Lord's headquarters and will be living proudly enough to tell the tale.

And "G". Oh! She was breath taking. Draco will no longer deny that. To lie in the face of his lunatic Aunt Bella. To hold a firm grip at her mind, as her body rattled under the "Crucio" spell. Draco was sure he would break. But then she had to keep looking at him. Her eyes actually piercing through his toughened Occlumency shields, and caressing his battered soul.

In the eerie night, in his grandeur bedroom, the Malfoy heir, for the first time in his life felt just like a knutless pauper. He opened the buttons of his shirt sleeves. Folded the cloth, now hanging loosely above his left arm. And looked blankly at the hideous, moving Dark Mark. When he had taken it, he was proud to stand as an equal beside his father. And now, he poked at it, once, twice, thrice.

His eyes burnt alight with a realization, whose fragments he had been gathering and keeping locked away in the deepest confines of his beating heart. He clenched his jaw, cleared his throat and steadied his index finger.

Very slowly, right there, over the hood of the serpent, he started tracing one single letter.

"G".  
On and on, not stopping for once. His finger moved, like a snake moving to the sway induced by the snake charmer. Over and over. The candles flickered, the elves brought in food, his father knocked then without a response trailed away, the sound of his walking stick gradually fading away into the silent mournful night.

Even when the dawn threatened to come through his darkened, shamefaced room, Draco Malfoy was found sitting hunched over his left arm, at the edge of his four poster canopy bed, shaking, in guilt and grief, his index finger reverently going on, tracing the single letter "G," over the farce of a mark of the Dark Lord.

* * *

**theLastoftheLaiquendi**\- thank you hope this is good enough.

**iNiGmA** – I really cannot take credit for that expression. "Their blood was still keeping the Hogwarts grounds moist, just a few layers below those springtime grass blades." Two years back, we had gone to Rajasthan, a state in India, and had visited the magnanimous Chittorgarh Fort. We had a guide, who had rather poetically narrated the glorious history of this fort. The tour had ended at the oldest and single fort entrance on the opposite side of the hilltop- Surya Pol- dedicated to the Sun god. The Rajputs of Mewar considered themselves descendants of the Sun clan. When we had managed to climb down a bit, over the completely broken pathway, we saw a vast expanse right below, before us. It was stripped with small patches of green fields. My husband had joked, "On one side we have the city clustered together and on the other, its fields- its rather a smooth arrangement". Our guide had grown solemn. What he said next will live in both of us for years to come. "These fields, you see, sir, are the same ones, were thousands of Rajput warriors, fought and killed and then got killed to protected this fort. For it was believed, if one could capture this, one would capture the heart of the lions. The land, today, where lesser quality food grains are grown, right there the brave slain warriors of our land died as martyrs. Their blood is still keeping the ground moist, just a few layers below those green crops." He might have created a poetic eulogy, but what really can grow on a blood-soaked patch of land, if not just shrubs?

**aggersfam2011**\- is this a fitting next?

**MournfulSeverity**\- glad and honored like always.

**saoyedaoez01**\- I am hoping to keep you interested for more.

* * *

Shall I let the balls of captivated emotions keep rolling?


	3. She is stealing glances

And, finally, let the drums roll, -Mournfulseverity has officially accepted to be my Beta. We stay in two opposite halves of the world. So, my typos will vanish only after the sun rises on her side of the globe. I am still finding my way through this site.

Disclaimer: I tried and tried, hard to write something else- but this Dramione was too stubbornly lodged at the tip of my pen. The Harry Potter world, belongs to JKR. My mind lives in the Harry Potter fanfiction world though my body is still thankfully anchored in the monotonous reality of existence. My themes, plot line and story line may therefore get indirectly influenced by many of the brilliant fanfiction writers in this site. And I humbly bow to such creative genius who give me much needed literary pleasures to see through the toils of mundane life.

* * *

Chapter 3

Stealing glances

A day at Hogwarts  
6th year

She was fed up, utterly and absolutely fed up with Harry's unlikely obsession with Him. Obsession. She didn't feel comfortable around that word. Why would she? Not at least now. Not when no one is looking. Not when Ron is finally stealing glances at her. No, Not now. How was she going to explain it? No, she will not even consider it, not for a fraction of a second! NO, NO, No!

She stabs at her piece of tenderly cooked roast to the perfection, lowers her head and then sighs. But who is she to deny? Deny that her eyes will travel over the heads of her friends and housemates to the table right across. Eyes would peruse and then, like a moth to fire, like a bee dancing over a freshly blossomed flower, like thirsty traveler running like a mad man towards a mirage of an oasis, find him.

Him.

He has grown taller, his hair no longer gelled up and back brushed, his robes tailored by the masters of the craft of cloth making- still wrinkled. His hair now certainly makes an attempt to hide his eyes. His eyes now hardly see things and hardly hold on to values of the thriving lives around. On days, she finds a seat behind him, she notices the edges of his shoulders. The slender nape of his neck. His ears are not white. But they are a combination of rose pink, carnation, blush, ballet slippers, crepe, lemonade, rouge, flamingo, peach, punch, slowly fading into nude and coral- then he straightens up, his back rigid, conscious of a lingering stare. He drops a quill at the floor, feigning absentminded, at the pretext of spotting the assailant.

But Hermione is on longer looking, her eyes are trained on the professor. Her ears perked up obediently receiving the lesson. She is fighting hard against the blush threatening to creep over her collar bone, up her throat and tinge her cheeks.

He stupendously surveys the scene. Like a spider at the neglected corner of a room. Finding none too busy hiding their true intentions, he straightens up and goes back to drawing an elegant "G" on the neglected right bottom edge of the parchment.

She slowly breathes out a sigh. Slowly and softly releasing the pent-up suffocating air through a small slit of her thoroughly chewed lips. She turns her head, just a tiny bit of a millimeter and she looks back at him. Fascinated to discover, yet another nuance of him. His fingers, starting from the knuckle till the tip of each digit. The afternoon sun has finally burst into the room through the bay windows of the castle. And under its fierce scrutiny, his fingers suddenly look like those of an angel- about to bring upon God's wrath.

In the library, when she is hiding behind the book racks, she can see his head bowed down over ancient tomes. His fingers racing over the letters, his lips moving in a blur. He does not need to bite at them. His scowl is sharp enough to tackle the frustration vibrating through his whole body. He nearly throws away the book away, in disgust and disappointment. He clutches at the ends of his already tussled hair. And pulls at them. She is now standing on her little toes. Her feet are aching. Her fingers at holding onto the shelf edge at the level of her nose, she is holding onto her labored breath again. Her eyes are burning. She has not blinked for once. Then there is someone coming from the other end of the row, she is currently in. Hastily she changes her wound up posture, it is a student meaning to move on to the next row. Quickly, she turns, rising up on her toe, she looks out. He has left.

His food is untouched, his face held up with the lone crook of his turned-up palm. He is every sculpture's prized Adonis, or David. What difference does it make which Renaissance artist will pay him to simply sit just like that? Nonchalant, disinterested, lost and drowning in unknown sorrow of failure? He is there right in front of her. Sitting quietly. Looking ahead. Away from his usual snobbish house mates. He didn't even take seep of the drink in his goblet. He gets up, not actually seeing the dinner is coming to a close. His shoulders are dropped, his head bowed down. He walks out of the great hall. She thinks she can hear his footsteps. Elegant like his script, tapping on the stone floor in perfect cadence.

That night when she finally is secluded within the red curtains of her four poster Gryffindor dorm bed, Hermione Granger, a muggleborn, the brightest witch of the age, the brains of the Golden Trio, a steadfast friend of The Boy Who Lived, the one to standby Harry Potter through war and in peace, cried her heart out of Draco Lucius Malfoy.

* * *

A/N: Shall I carry on? But why Must I?


	4. He is Stealing Glances

It is a challenge by me to myself. Make the most wanted characters of Harry Potter fandom do anything everything with each other but without uttering a word. Can I do that? Let me see. If i am not making the lips move to talk. I better work extra hard on the other senses, of sight, of touch, of smell and of hearing.

Chapter 4

He is stealing glances

Hogwarts School of Wizardry and Witchcraft

6th year

He is now kneeling at the Dark Lord's feet. His left arm throbbing in pain. His father's body still trembling from the aftermath of the wretched curse. But his is not thinking about him right now. That excuse of a man, can rot in hell. Surely something like that exists. _They_ believe it to be there somewhere below his very feet.

He is thinking about his mother. A mother whose hands are figuratively tied, who fate is gruesomely getting tangled with that of the task he has to carry on. Kill. Kill the very man, he would have considered a true mentor, a powerful teacher. Though Dumbledore is bias. But Draco can for moments in his little life give the old wizard credit for being powerful. And he has to KILL. Like how was he suppose to do that.

He is done with his classes for the day. As if everything is so normal. Like no one is breathing down your neck. No one is watching your every move.

He truly lives among snakes. Snakes who live in the bowels of a castle. Snakes who don't bother if their own will one day turn into, they food. Snakes watch him through hooded eyes. He has dreams.

Dreams where Nagini with every other snake that breathes the dungeon air with him, is sharing his canopy dorm bed. Slithering all over the posts, the covers, the pillows, over the headboard and hanging from the canopy. Their mouths open. Fork tongues out. Dangling and swaying at the beat of the pendulum. Hissing at him at the beat of an invisible clock.

Aunt Bella, and her eccentric tendencies. She wants to help and teach him arts of killing. What is wrong with these people who are suppose to be his guardian? His Godfather? He cannot even think about him clearly. Whose side is he in? Is he the reason for father's state? Is he responsible for mother's tears? Is he the man behind, making him, a boy not even out of school, prepare himself to kill a living human being?

He can not eat. Not a morsel. He can not drink. Every time he touches any of it, feels their texture over his tongue, he feels like throwing out. He has already spent hours one night in the prefect's bathroom. Dry heaving his raising panic. He has spent hours in the Room of Requirements fixing the Vanishing cabinet. His other attempts were half-hearted. He is sorry to have done that to Katie Bell. He is genuinely sorry for Ron Weasley. But he will not say it. He envies that whole brood of red hair Gryffindors.

He would have given anything to live surrounded by such love, happiness and – there _She_ is.

She is walking ahead of him. A few feet away, her head dipped down. Her hair. He has spent hours thinking how would it be like to have the opportunity to look at them closely. How would it feel like to wrap a strand around his pale finger? He is still to decide the real colour of her hair. If she is sitting on the grounds, it is caramel. If the sunrays dare to play with her strands it becomes sunflower blonde. If she is looking back at him, in all those occasions when he had picked up a fight intentionally- it becomes sparkling amber, hot coffee and copper shimmer.

She stops suddenly. And is about to turn. He has to escape right now. He takes the only way he knows will not blow his cover. He walks straight into her, literally barging into her firm yet petite body. Knocking her breathe. Slamming against her half-turned form- a perfection made by God? An envy of a failing sculpture?

Pretending she does not even exist. He keeps walking. Feet stamping on the floor. His ears are ringing. His heart is beating like galloping horses. He has seen those in books, he will never mention the names of. His palms are sweating suddenly. His eyes are not seeing anything once again. Are those tears?

Turning the corner, he breaks into a run. His feet thumping now, his heart is about to burst open. Air. AIR! He needs air. He needs to breathe. There. A splash of light. Against the stone-cold floor.

The empty courtyard. The fountain is quiet. There are no birds to be seen. Good. Better. Quiet is better than noise and laughter. He slides down a secluded pillar. Eyes close shut. He is seeing stars behind his eyelids. And is panting like a nearly drowning man, suddenly getting hold of a drift wood lazily floating on the surface of a shipwrecked stormy ocean.

He bangs his head softly against the stone pillar. At the beat of his heart. Perhaps this will help him to rein down his racing pulse. The palm of his left hand is secured tightly into a knuckle whitening fist. The Dark Mark is throbbing over the pulse point.

Even if every cell of his body is screaming evil spawn. His left fist is of gold. It has stealthy dipped itself, into the cauldron of a successful alchemist. And may be, hoping against hope, has succeeded in purifying itself?

Finally, he dares to take in a deep breath. He feels the chill air, entering through his nostrils, instead of his mouth. Chilled air warming his throat, his lungs and slowly his entire body. Warming enough, that he can at last relax. No one is here. It is pin drop silence.

Draco Malfoy opens his blue grey eyes, his blond hair kissing his temple and his eye brows. His cheeks red and tear tracks visible over their chaffed surface. He brings his left fist close to his eyes. And opens them. There right across his barely visible life line, are three strands of brown hair belonging to Hermione Granger.


	5. Love smells like him

It is a challenge by me to myself. Make the most wanted characters of Harry Potter fandom do anything everything with each other but without uttering a word. Can I do that? Let me see. If I am not making the lips move to talk. I better work extra hard on the other senses, of sight, of touch, of smell and of hearing.

To all the reviewers a hearty thank you.

I am happy to announcement that two of my other fan-fiction has found their place in "Awesome Severus Snape Stories" for which I sincerely thank Vina for considering them to be worthy enough.

Now on to the story.

* * *

_**Disclaimer**_: I own nothing, but my thoughts of AU and OC, the rest all belong to J K Rowling. This story was knocking its head in my mind for the last decade or so. Finally, I could gather the courage to pen it down, or better type it down. My mind lives in the Harry Potter fanfiction world though my body is still thankfully anchored in the monotonous reality of existence. My themes, plot line and story line may therefore get indirectly influenced by many of the brilliant fanfiction writers in this site. And I humbly bow to such creative genius who give me much needed literary pleasures to see through the toils of mundane life. Lastly, I don't have a beta, so please be merciful. Reviews would encourage this introvert writer to peep out of her literary closet. My very first attempt at writing a fanfiction ever.

* * *

**Chapter 5**

**Love smells like him**

_Hogwarts  
Months after War_

The air in the dungeon is heavy with scents. The fumes from the cauldrons burning presently. Even smells of potions that were prepared earlier within the same walls, cling to the surfaces, dark and cold. The class is going to be over any moment. Her fingers are gripping her quill tightly. Knuckles white. She has just noted down her findings. Her brew as ever is perfect. The unmistakable mother of pearl sheen and the spirally steam lazily dancing over its warm surface. Her eyes are glassy. She is growing warmer as the seconds tick by. Her palms are beginning to sweat. Her ears are ringing. She looks over the list of odors she has smelled moments earlier.

_**Ripe green apples**_

_**Old dusty books**_

_**Polish for broomsticks**_

_**Sweat and a distinct musk**_

_**Sugar quills**_

_**Stagnant ink in an old inkpot**_

_**Sandalwood aftershave**_

_**Stale firewhiskey**_

She blinks her eye lids rapidly. She has already turned up her potion. Her fingers tremble at first. She fists them tighter. Not now. Not here. Not with all of them in the room. Not with HIM just a row behind. Then the bell rings. Uncharacteristically, shoving her supplies into her school satchel, she dashes out of the room. Someone calls from behind. But she never turns. She needs to hide. NOW. The shudders make it difficult for her to move faster. But she presses on.

The dungeons are dark. It is the snake's lair. But the war hardened lioness moves further into the darker tunnels. A classroom to her left, the door opens easily. She hears footsteps coming her way. The shivers are rocking her movements. She can no longer breathe. Tumbling inside, she tries hard to unclasp her robe. The fastenings tighten and choke her. She is grappling on the damp and dusty floor, struggling to breathe. Her arms and legs are rattling against the hard stone. She will soon hit her head hard and crack it open. She knows. It has happened before. She might bite her tongue off as well. She might bang her nose and bleed on the dark floor. Who knows? Who can tell? Her nerves are on fire. She tastes bile in her mouth.

Above her roaring heartbeat, she hears the door click open. Footsteps across the stone floor. A single pair of boots hitting the surface. Coming closer. She desperately tries to move afar. Further into the room, and mix with the darker environment. She could no longer hold on to her bladder. Her skirt is damp and wet. The shame that comes along with the pungent smell of urine. The air cold and unwelcoming, suddenly feels warmer. First the smell. The heady mix of green apples, sandalwood, firewhiskey, broomstick polish and THAT MUSK.

Someone is breathing closer to her ears. Someone is gathering her in their arms. She is facing away. Her back is touching a strong hard chest. A strong lean and long pair of arms are holding her protectively. Her legs are secured between a pair of long legs, that are now crossing over her knees. The tip of the boots dangle over her ankles. She is being held captive. But this is calming. Liberating. For a long time, she has not felt this free. Someone is burying their nose at the crook of her neck. Breathing heavily. She can make out the smell of green apples.

A quiet hum fills the air. A sweet and tender Lullaby. The person behind her is trying to breathe and coaxing her to follow their breathing pattern. But that humming continues. Then she notices. HIS fingers. White and pale. She does not remember when her shirt has ridden up and few inches of her shrunken stomach is exposed to the chill of the room. His palms are touching her skin. Warm and welcoming. She clenches her muscles a little. No, those touching palms are real. She is slightly trembling now. She is crying. Tears might have already started making muddy tracks over her cheeks.

A Lone finger points up. Rigid. Then bends half way. Its tip touching a fraction of her skin. And then starts drawing a pattern on the surface of her stomach. Reverently. She feels dazed. She tilts her head further behind, it is resting on a strong ruddy hooded eyelids, she watches the progress of the lone index finger. She is slipping between the realms of consciousness and unconsciousness. Still she can make out a single letter- "G" and a runic letter beside it. She searches her hazy mind for its meaning. She gasps despite she sleepiness. She knows what that symbol means. The finger tracing those two letters on and on, stops. She feels the nose deep lower. A pair of lips touch her soft skin on her sweat coated neck. The person holding her tight for so long, inhales deeply. And then slowly softly through his trembling lips, releases warm and sweet breeze that tickle her hair, her jaw line, her collar bone, leaving goosebumps all though its sweet journey down the valley of her breasts.

Planting a chaste kiss, leaving behind a patch of wet saliva. She now knows it will taste of green apples, if she can ever run the tip of her tongue over it. A wave of those pale, worshipping and determined fingers. Her soiled clothes are dry again. Her hair is in place. Her skin is dry and she feels refreshed. Propping her against an old student desk, Draco Lucius Malfoy, walks out of the room.

As he quietly closes the door, mindful of not securing the latch. He runs the tip of his tongue over his wet lips. He has once again tasted the essence of Hermione Jean Granger.

* * *

A/N: Finally I am back on track. Next it is Draco's turn...Share your expectations for the upcoming chapter, if you can. Thank you all in advance.


	6. Love smells like her

It is a challenge by me to myself. Make the most wanted characters of Harry Potter fandom do anything everything with each other but without uttering a word. Can I do that? Let me see. If I am not making the lips move to talk. I better work extra hard on the other senses, of sight, of touch, of smell and of hearing.

To all the reviewers a hearty thank you!

I am happy to announcement that two of my other fan-fiction has found their place in "Awesome Severus Snape Stories" for which I sincerely thank Vina for considering them to be worthy enough.

Now on to the story. This chapter was truly the bane of my very existence. The real reason behind starting this series called "Mute".

* * *

_**Disclaimer**_: I own nothing, but my thoughts of AU and OC, the rest all belong to J K Rowling. This story was knocking its head in my mind for the last decade or so. Finally, I could gather the courage to pen it down, or better type it down. My mind lives in the Harry Potter fanfiction world though my body is still thankfully anchored in the monotonous reality of existence. My themes, plot line and story line may therefore get indirectly influenced by many of the brilliant fanfiction writers in this site. And I humbly bow to such creative genius who give me much needed literary pleasures to see through the toils of mundane life. Lastly, I don't have a beta, so please be merciful. Reviews would encourage this introvert writer to peep out of her literary closet. My very first attempt at writing a fanfiction ever.

* * *

**Chapter 6  
Love smells like her**

hogwarts

6th year

_(As he quietly closes the door, mindful of not securing the latch. He runs the tip of his tongue over his wet lips. He has once again tasted the essence of Hermione Granger.)_

The mirrors reflect a version of him, he never wished to recognize with. He is crying. The bloody cabinet just does not wish to get fixed. He has exhausted his resources. Dumbledore is alive. That is good and that is enormously bad for his parents. Their fate is tied to his task. Aunt Bella keeps sending discreet greetings. Of course! they are not so friendly. Reminders! Reminding him why his mother is still alive. The Dark Lord is baiting.

He coughs. Harder and harder. He does not remember eating a proper meal. His clothes are hanging loose. He has not dared to look at himself in a mirror in the past couple of weeks. Hogwarts mirrors speak. And to the Slytherin Prince they have plenty to say. Utter nonsense. His fists are bleeding. The three-fold mirrors are cracked. He has just pounded on their glossy surface. It is the perfect's bathroom. But he is past caring.

His shirt is untucked. Top two buttons open. His robes askew around the wet floor. The taps are open to the full. He is desperately trying to drown his heart beat, the sound of his coughing, crying, shrieking, yelling within the gurgling sound of water.

His jaws are shrunken, hollow like skull. His eyes are lifeless. He has dark circles around them. Purple or blueish. He, of all things, is crying! Oh Mother! If he can in some way buy some more time. He does not know whom to trust any longer. Every single one of them seems to be playing a game for their personal benefits. He no longer recognizes his Godfather.

At this moment, right now, he wishes to see the green light. He wishes to hear someone shout at him "avada kedavra" and just stop existing.

A shadow falls over the cracked mirror. It is walking towards him now. He thinks it to be a ghost, an apparition. A figment of his failing mind. He wants to die. He is already breathing hard. Choking on his own saliva. A rebounding sound of a GASP.

He straightens up, whirls about, his wand drawn, a spell rocketing steadily up his throat…

It is HER.

Blown eyes wide and in shock. Hair in tangles. That button nose inflating and deflating. Her perfect bow lips open in awe. She has her wand in her palm. But she is still not pointing it at him. Instead, her other arm is raised at him. A known gesture. An Unlikely one. She wants to come in peace?!

Breathing harder still, he dares to blink. He thinks she is not real. She is the angel from his tortured dreams. Then, is she trying to say something to him? She is gulping. Wetting her lips. Taking a deep breath, and- she is determined to open her mouth, to speak her mind.

No,no, NO, NO, NO! Dream angels DO NOT speak!

Throwing away his wand, he lungs forward. Like a caged panther he is upon her. He has succeeded in trapping her with his body. One of his larger palms have secured her wand hand. Up over her head. Her other hand is thoroughly trapped between their pressed bodies. Her palm pressed over his beating heart. He has her pinned against the opposite wall. He never gives her the time to scream. His seeker reflexes have her mouth closed shut. His bleeding hand secured over her never shutting mouth. He now notices small pieces of glass embedded on his knuckles. Her short intake of breath tickling his wounds. Her eyes are open and panic written on her brown honey iris. He looks closer. He can see himself in her eyes.

So long, he has been taking short breathes. After a while he dares to inhale deeper. Her eyes are roving over his face. He knows she is staring at his disheveled hair, his upturned collar, his open top buttons. She is looking at his tears. She is staring bluntly at his dark purple and blue circles. Those make his eyes ghastly. And then she looks down. At his lips. He feels her fingers over his chest, twitch. She looks up. Scanning his eyes. For something. Then looks down at his lips. He keeps the pressure on her wand hand steady.

But he cannot continue to be the exposed subject of her blatant scrutiny. Tears well up in her eyes. He cannot be the reason behind them. In pure agony, he closes his eyes. His eye lids brush against his dark circles. Why isn't that a painful act? He leans forward. Her fingers twitch over his heart once again. And finally, in benediction, he touches her forehead with that of his sinful one.

They hit him then. His senses are burning as if scorching on hell fire. A whim of Vanilla. A trail of Honey and Strawberry. Fragrance of newly grown grass. was that lavender petals dried and kept safe between a thoroughly read book. Does salt have a smell of its own? Smell of dusty tomes. The tang of ink. And below all that, the primal scent of a woman. Her lips below his palm move on their own. Her wand arm twitches. The fingers of her other arm move more confidently even if they are trapped between their heaving bodies. She is rocking on her feet. He likes that soft slow rhythm. He allows that tiny bit of liberty.

As if willing to contribute something more to that slow tapping, his index finger of his hand that has her wand hand caged, starts tapping over her wrist. Right above her pulse point. But they are not dancing here. This is not a celebration of nearing Death. His finger starts its known action. Slowly, softly, it begins the practiced move of drawing a letter, again and again. Over her pulse point. Giving her a definition. Giving him an anchor. One that his drowning soul badly requires at this moment. A single elegant "G".

Soon, their hearts are beating in sync. As if that has even happened in the long history of their renowned rivalry. An impish thought niggles its way into his disrupted mind. Didn't they have chocolate pastries for dinner? He tries to shake that thought off with a huff. But her eye lids flicker against his skin. He pries open his eyes. Her eyes are crying out in pain and pleading to him.

But he? That chocolate pastry did look tempting. He had seen her having spoonful of her serving. He had given it a miss though. Thoughts of his mother's torment had plagued him. Now, in this unlikely place, the faucets sprouting and gurgling water. The bathroom floor getting wetter by the passing moments, the infamous Slytherin Prince wants to get a taste of pure, exotic, intoxicating and exhilarating chocolate.

A stray thought later, he stares into her eyes. She is open to him like a book. Clearer than water. Sacred than archaic vows. He leans further in. Her fingers over his chest bunch up his shirt as if in anticipation. He cautiously lowers his palm from over her now cups her chin. His thumb brushes few drops of tear dangling from the edge of her jaw with soft circular brushes. His other four fingers and rest of his aching palm feeling the racing pulse just a few layers under her skin. Peach, blush, champagne- he fails to catalogue her skin colour. And a second later his lips have trapped her lips. Pink like petals, soft like down feathers. He licks at them to find the lingering taste of chocolate.

Then he is flying across the room. She has shoved him off. Staring at him, with renewed panic, she turns without a word and flees. Her footsteps pound across the empty corridor. He hardly gets any time to right himself. Potter is upon him. He is rallying against his famous school nemesis. He does not recall what all he says this time. He just keeps licking his lips in between. He is desperately trying to hold on to that miniscule taste of chocolate he has succeeded in stealing away from her.

His world is torn apart. His body is spewing blood from numerous cracks. He is finally dying. He tries to laugh at Fate. All he does is throwing up more blood. The floor is soaking with it. He tries to laugh again. Something dark descends upon him. Perhaps this is justice. His sin was to steal a chocolate coated kiss from one pure and angelic Hermione Jean Granger. And Draco Lucius Malfoy, the traitor and evil spawn can finally die.

* * *

A/N: So, your thoughts? was that a worthy kiss?


	7. The Brush of Her Fingers

It is a challenge by me to myself. Make the most wanted characters of Harry Potter fandom do anything everything with each other but without uttering a word. Can I do that? Let me see. If I am not making the lips move to talk. I better work extra hard on the other senses, of sight, of touch, of smell and of hearing.

To all the reviewers a hearty thankful.

I am happy to announcement that two of my other fan-fiction has found their place in "Awesome Severus Snape Stories" for which I sincerely thank Vina for considering them to be worthy enough.

Now on to the story.

* * *

_**Disclaimer**_: I own nothing, but my thoughts of AU and OC, the rest all belong to J K Rowling. My mind lives in the Harry Potter fanfiction world though my body is still thankfully anchored in the monotonous reality of existence. My themes, plot line and story line may therefore get indirectly influenced by many of the brilliant fanfiction writers in this site. And I humbly bow to such creative genius who give me much needed literary pleasures to see through the toils of mundane life. Lastly, I don't have a beta, so please be merciful. Reviews would encourage this introvert writer to peep out of her literary closet.

* * *

**Chapter 7**

**The brush of her fingers**

_Right before the Battle of Hogwarts_

Her heart is still racing. She can still feel the heat. The licking tongues of those dangerously close flames of Fiendfyre. She hates flying, detests it from the bottom of her heart. And she has ridden a thestral, Buckbeak, the Hippogriff and Oh Merlin! a Dragon. She is horrible at it. Screaming and screeching her lungs out. Her stomach drops. Her ears buzz. And she is a witch! Hasn't her fairy tale books, those Halloween cartoons and her trick or treat adventures talk her anything? A witch is never off her broom! But her has barely made it through her flying test. She has voluntarily ridden a broom, well that also she can count on her fingers. And she is friends with two famous Quidditch players of the Gryffindor school team.

Even while, coughing volumes of smoke, looking for Harry and Ron- she has that feeling. What must he be thinking? She tries not to look. She can hear him loud and clear. Harry is holding him down. Ron has his wand trained over a stunned Goyle. He is screaming mercilessly for Crabbe.

He is wrestling under Harry. He has succeeded in throwing him off twice and has made for the invisible door. But she knows that there is no way they can get back in there. There is no way Crabbe will survive. She knows HE is about to lose his childhood friend. And she knows the value of a long friendship. In both the times, Harry has dragged him back. It is ridiculous to see them struggle. To see one enemy trying to save the other. When just in the following hour they will stand at two opposite sides of this war that has coming knocking at the doorsteps of their beloved school.

He suddenly rolls and pins Harry. The sudden moment gives him the time to try once again. But she is ready. Blinking furiously so that she can hide those tears, she mutters a curse. _Lockomotor Mortis_. And Ron is the first one to give her a thumbs up. Harry simply says, "That's for you, Neville."

He turns to glare at them. But within a fraction of a second is back crawling towards the wall where the door has vanished. The boys are running off now.

He realizes the effort is futile. Laying there is a fetal position, he cries. She hesitates. The boys call her. She is quick with a reply. They finally reach the corner. She can no more see them. She jogs back. Cautiously bends over him. She can't help it. She does not know why exactly she is doing it. He is facing away from her. He eyes are looking away. He has rubbed his face on the floor. His eyelids close and open. And with every stroke, his lashes paint more tear tracks over his dark circles. His pale cheek has soot and dirt and dried blood on it. She does not like the look of it. She drops to her knees. Leans over his bundled body. She stares at his rapidly moving expanse of pale, and pinkish neck.

Her fingers rise on their own. She only realizes it, when they are ghosting above his exposed jawline. Softly she allows them to touch him. There, right below her finger tips, his jugular artery is pumping blood. It mirrors the rhythm of his heart. It is racing. The palm of her other hand trails over her chest, and stops right above her heart. It is still racing. In sync with his.

He jerks suddenly. Then he closes his eyes. Taking in a deep breath. He exhales. That warm air, that has just left his burning lungs, dance over the dust on the ground, throwing more specks of dirt into the ray of light that is coming through one of the windows. She hears random footsteps. In fact, there are many of them. Coming towards them. Saying a small prayer in her mind, she has a strange idea.

Above his slim neck, she traces a letter, she feels he has a fascination for. Then she stands up and runs off to the direction her two best friends have disappeared.

Right there above his exposed neck, she has left her initial "G". And he feels once again. The brush of her fingers has the strength to purify his soul. He traces its journey, the slow absorption of her magic, taunt over his slim neck, then percolating through the pores of those seven layers of his skin, weaving its way through the muscles and finally stroking over his galloping artery. It lingers there for a couple of seconds. He is aware of the approaching footsteps. He breathes in again. Feeling her magic finally mixing itself in his blood. He breathes out.

Draco Lucius Malfoy is now a marked man. He has accepted yet another mark before his impending death. The mark of Hermione Jean Granger.

* * *

A/N: As always, you valuable thoughts will ignite the flames of my imagination.

iNiGmA Let's just safely call this endevour of mine- fanfiction for fanfiction's sake!

"The only difference between the saint and the sinner is that every saint has a past, and every sinner has a future."~ Oscar Wilde


	8. The Brush of His Fingers

It is a challenge by me to myself. Make the most wanted characters of Harry Potter fandom do anything everything with each other but without uttering a word. Can I do that? Let me see. If I am not making the lips move to talk. I better work extra hard on the other senses, of sight, of touch, of smell and of hearing.

To all the reviewers a hearty thank you.

I am happy to announcement that two of my other fan-fiction has found their place in "Awesome Severus Snape Stories" for which I sincerely thank Vina for considering them to be worthy enough.

Now on to the story.

* * *

_**Disclaimer**_: I own nothing, but my thoughts of AU and OC, the rest all belong to J K Rowling. My mind lives in the Harry Potter fanfiction world though my body is still thankfully anchored in the monotonous reality of existence. My themes, plot line and story line may therefore get indirectly influenced by many of the brilliant fanfiction writers in this site. And I humbly bow to such creative genius who give me much needed literary pleasures to see through the toils of mundane life. Lastly, I don't have a beta, so please be merciful. Reviews would encourage this introvert writer to peep out of her literary closet.

* * *

**Brush of his fingers**

**Chapter 8**

She will never forget how Evil looks. Eyes red, hairless, skin frail, the corpse alive. Small slits in place of the pyramid shaped nose. Robes barely holding on to the frame of bones.

And Harry…! She can't think of it! This so raw. The pain. The purpose slashed by Fate. How can the Dark be allowed to win? How, after all the sacrifices done at the alter of the highest power. How can evil be allowed to breathe. Harry…oh! oh, how? After all the near-death experiences and then triumphing over it. Alive and breathing and carrying on. How? Why! Why now! When victory can be so, so easily achieved. Even in this time of drear peril. She thinks of carousels at the fair. Has she not ridden a dragon, a thestral, a hippogriff, and brooms! Why earlier that day…no carousels, the singsong music, when unicorns felt truly fantastic. They were not so real, and dead, with unknown evil forces feasting on their silver blood.

She does not wish to remember, but _his_ face still swims up in front of her glassy eyes. Ron is standing beside her. He has one of her hand held within his larger sweaty and bruised ones. He is trying to be her knight in shinning armour. The friend she has kissed, in front of one very happy Harry Potter. And that happy face will never smile again? Will she die too? Will all of them die? Or will those death-eaters make an example of her.

Keep her alive but barely. Strip her layer by layer. Till they reach for her very soul. No. Don't. Don't think like the weak and crumbling. But the grand castle, her home away from home is in shambles all around her. They have turned it in a graveyard. They friends have fallen fighting. And if this, lauding speech of that snake face, VOLDEMORT, ends soon, there will be more to follow. With flashes of the colours of a rainbow. In her world, green is the colour of moving forward, progress. Here is it the colour of Death.

Then she smells _him_. Even above the smell of burnt wood, charred fresh and scorched plants. A heady scent that triumphs over the smell of decay, blood and vomit. The scent of green apples, musk, his own signature smell. Sweat. Warmth. She slowly without letting Ron understand, brings her free hand behind her. She feels the brush of a body. A breathing one. Inhaling and exhaling with the rhythm of her heart. Her breath hitches. Her senses scream at her. She thinks. _When everyone, is standing around, defeat and resignation written on their face... Why has no one, pointed **him** out. **He** is disillusioned._

She gasps. A hushed sound of a someone breathing very near, right next to her ear shell. Tickling her soft hair. And then a drop of water. Landing on its soft curve. And the brush of…were those lips? Ron looks at her from the corner of his eyes. She is trying very hard. To look ahead.

Then he writes a set of rune letters on her back turned palm. Cold over her heated skin. His fingers are now moving faster. Urgent and desperate.

"Mother lied; Potter is alive."

One letter at a time.

He trails his finger from the base of her neck to the low of her back. In slow and torturous circles, he lets those soft touches light her hope, rekindle her fire. He breathes near her ear shell. She tilts her head towards Ron. Exposing her neck to him. she cannot jerk off. Not now. She knows what he is about to do. And she would let him. She needs it. She doesn't know what it means to him. But if that has given him strength, hope and the reason to live through hell and back- she would like to taste its power. Then he draws the letter "g" right where she had drawn earlier that day.

And then the warmth is gone. The presence is gone. She feels something in her palm, but she is too afraid to see what it is. She secretly tucks it in her pocket.

Then Lucius Malfoy calls for his son. And a defeated Draco Malfoy walks from behind the crowd of gathered students. He purposefully shoves his body, against Hermione Granger. There in front of the entire army of the Light and the Dark, he has touched her. Felt her. For a second, held her palm and given it a squeeze. And she got the hint.

When the unsuspecting Dark Lord hugs him, he steels his resolve. This abomination must die. He turns and goes to stand by his parents. His mother holds his hand. He takes in two sharp breathes. And his eyes lock with hers across the courtyard. She is looking at him. That glint of fire is slowly and steadily coming alive. Right within her honey coloured eyes. He smirks.

Then Neville stands up. A true Gryffindor.

* * *

A/N: Things here might not agree with the canon. I am just letting my thoughts run wild. It is fiction after all. Hope this chapter has not disappointed you. Any guesses, what has Draco slipped into Hermione's palm? Please write it down in the review section. Would love to know what you all are thinking.


	9. Reflection of Her Return

It is a challenge for me to myself. Make the most wanted characters of Harry Potter fandom do anything everything with each other but without uttering a word. Can I do that? Let me see. If I am not making the lips move to talk. I better work extra hard on the other senses, of sight, of touch, of smell and of hearing.

To all the reviewers a hearty thank you.

Now on to the story.

* * *

_**Disclaimer**_: I own nothing, but my thoughts of AU and OC, the rest all belong to J K Rowling. My mind lives in the Harry Potter fanfiction world though my body is still thankfully anchored in the monotonous reality of existence. My themes, plotline, and storyline may, therefore, get indirectly influenced by many of the brilliant fanfiction writers in this site. And I humbly bow to such creative genius who give me much needed literary pleasures to see through the toils of mundane life. Lastly, I don't have a beta, so please be merciful. Reviews would encourage this introvert writer to peep out of her literary closet.

* * *

**Reflection of her return**

**8th year**

**Hogwarts**

The nightmares wouldn't leave. The war is over. His name is in the dust. No…, not his name. His honour? No…, not even that. The Honour and name of his Family. Yes exactly. The other two are still nascent. He can make a better man of himself. He will never walk into Azkaban. Potter of all the people has seen to it. Saved the bully and yet again became the hero. But he does not feel like snarling. That was a habit induced by his father. He most certainly wishes to get rid off. A few have decided to come back. He does not care whether their decisions are entirely based on begging for redemption. They all will have to walk through fire. As rest of the school will not leave them unscathed.

As if the war has just taken away those loved ones who were fighting for the Light. War had drilled a hole through every heart, rampaged through every mind and had molested every youth long enough to turn them into spiteful adults. These days he dares not to sleep. He prefers surrounding himself with books. In fact, anything that comes with letters written all over its parchments will find its way into his hands. Often quiet readings don't do the trick. He has opted for mumbling to himself. Pushing himself through the therapeutic process of reading, where he can actually see the words, live through them and forget his present murky existence. Choice? Well, isn't that the most precious thing robbed away from him?

He has trouble with enclosed places. The chattering voices. Even if someone would pass by closer than comfort, he would jump away. The rustle of robes make him jump out of his skin. But he can't let the others see him behaving like this. Like a mortified rat. The train compartment, that now has a handful of his returning Slytherin classmates, too feels dreary. As if these faces are masks and below those masks, all of them are actually decaying corpses. He feels his bile rise up, he feels his ears ringing, his head spinning slightly. Gingerly getting up from the seat, he sways a little. The others spare him a curious look. But he manages not to make a scene. And makes his way out into the corridor.

He shoves his sweaty palms into his pockets. They must not see how those are shivering on their own. He keeps his head down. But his platinum strands invite scorns, taunts and a lot of unsavory catcalls. The tables are turned! And there is no one left to blame for his pathetic situation. He makes for the washroom. And flings himself to the washbasin. Why does history want itself to get repeated again and again? The mirror at times looks like the one in the perfect's bathroom. How badly he wants to relive the moment, she had walked in. Her smell, her touch, her essence, her eyes. Pure. Angelic. Living elixir that he would like to drink. He is thirsty. His eyes are parched, his lips chapped, his ears have gone deaf. And he feels mostly numb. And he knows he needs to hold on to something. To feel alive.

Hastily he shrugs off his robes, removes his cloak, and coat, and sweater until he can feel those crisp white linen. And right there in the middle of his chest, over his still miraculously beating heart, he starts his daily ritual. Drawing the letter "G" over and over again. He watches the slow moment of his index finger. watches the inverted image that the mirror shows him. And shuts his eyes. He has to feel that subtle moment. He has to feel that letter getting imprinted on his blackened heart. He had asked for fame, for money, for luxury but never for once did he wish for a cursed life. This single letter in the conglomeration of the 25 letters of the alphabet marks his road to penance. The door to the bathroom creaks. His finger stills in fright. Has someone discovered his secret little obsession? His eyes fly open. And the mirror shows him, a mirage! She is standing at the door. Her hair has started to get lose from that makeshift bun she has learnt to make. They are framing her almond-shaped face. Her eyes shine bright with recognition. Her fingers are gripping the doorknob. Her lips are a mixed shade of nude pink. He dares not to look over his shoulder. Her reflection is enough. Yes, that is enough to see him through the first day of Hogwarts, after the war.

His other hand that is still balled up inside his pocket, closes around her gift. She had been there in the courtroom, delivering her statement to prove his innocence, claiming he too was a victim of war, just like many others. And afterward, she had deliberately brushed past him, shoving a token in his pocket. Since then, he has never gone out without it. For a glass coin with a twirling snowdrop bud had helped through those initial days. He has smiled ruefully in the darkness of his bedroom, A fitting reply to his charmed pendant, an exotic crystal with a handful of rue trapped inside. And nobody would tie that with Draco Lucius Malfoy- a man who would buy the most precious diamonds and gemstone for the person he has started to care for. Neither would they believe the practical witch like Hermione Jean Granger to spend hours charming those tiny flowers into a transparent crystal. Flowers that she had herself pluck.

* * *

A/N: The madness and the effort to get a grip at this fast-changing world is on. I thank everyone, who considered this fic, worthy enough for a casual read. I find the language of the flowers absolutely intoxicating, it is something that gets me high. So you might be wondering about "Rue" and "snowdrop bud".  
**Rue** symbolizes adultery, genuine repentance, everlasting suffering, and sorrow. Here, in Draco's case, it is genuine repentance.  
**Snowdrop** flower is a symbol of rebirth and overcoming obstacles in life. Now, isn't that, something Hermione would have to say?


	10. Reflection of His return

It is a challenge for me to myself. Make the most wanted characters of Harry Potter fandom do anything everything with each other but without uttering a word. Can I do that? Let me see. If I am not making the lips move to talk. I better work extra hard on the other senses, of sight, of touch, of smell and of hearing.

To all the reviewers a hearty thank you.

Now on to the story.

* * *

_**Disclaimer**_: I own nothing, but my thoughts of AU and OC, the rest all belong to J K Rowling. My mind lives in the Harry Potter fanfiction world though my body is still thankfully anchored in the monotonous reality of existence. My themes, plotline, and storyline may, therefore, get indirectly influenced by many of the brilliant fanfiction writers in this site. And I humbly bow to such creative genius who give me much needed literary pleasures to see through the toils of mundane life. Lastly, I don't have a beta, so please be merciful. Reviews would encourage this introvert writer to peep out of her literary closet.

* * *

**Reflection of His return**

8th year  
Hogwarts

Do they not notice that her smiles no longer reach her eyes? That she truly prefers listening to the sounds of water dripping, the whooshing of winds through small gaps of the window, the rustling of dry leaves below her feet when she takes long walks on the Hogwarts ground, all alone, and actually cherish the sound of her breathing. That feel of the air racing through her nose and then getting lost somewhere deep inside. And then her body reciprocates by sending back another gushing breath of air. She is alive. Breathing. Alive, walking talking, reading. Like Time has slowed down suddenly.

And there are many who did not make it. The castle is still marked with scorches of deadly spells. The newly led stones are stark reminders of those ancient bricks that crumble under tranny. The good prevails and the bad…She can not dare to close her eyes. She is reading tomes and manuscripts in the rarely visited Hogwarts library. She has taken up the restoration task of restocking and rearranging the books. Someone else has volunteered as well. She never asks who else it is. She reads and reads. Her inner voice screaming those words to mask those terrors. She skips lunch. Somedays she tries to skip dinner. She can not stand the sight of the Great Hall. Instead of long tables and long benches, she sees makeshift stretchers with dead bodies of her friends on them. In between classes, she tries to escape the ecstatic crowd.

She hides behind bookshelves, doing her homework, reading her textbooks. Nobody cares much. People are used to seeing her as the resident bookworm. As for the tag of a war heroine, her self-induced distancing from the general student mass has deterred the growth of fan followers. Even those long line of suitors have shied away from her. They whisper to each other_; she looks but her eyes are unseeing_. The head girl badge no longer has the same appeal. She has relinquished her right to earn it. Madam Pince has allowed her to stay in the library for long hours. And she is happy to forget that even for once she should try to stay back in her room. The returning 8th years now have separate rooms, a special common room, and special washroom cubicles.

But she slips away, at the dead of the night. None of the other 8th years object. She does find many of them every night, hurdled around the ever-blazing fireplace. Nightmares and those lifeless faces of their friends and housemates keep them awake. They resort to stealing glances. They fear that if they ever look into the other dormmates' eyes, they will relive those traumatic events, that had brought their home away from home to its knees. And she looks for him. He is present in the classes, but never around otherwise. He was bullied, taunted and wounded. But he had not even touched his wand in retaliation.

From the beginning of this fresh academic year, there had been rumours of the fallen Slytherin Prince finally being at the receiving end of it. But Madam Pomphrey never saw his face appear in the Hospital wing. In between her library duties, she also volunteers for preparing potions and restocking the cupboards for the mediwitch. The thoughtful woman keeps a bottle of dreamless sleep potion on Fridays, on top of Hermione's designated corner table. No questions asked no answers given. But those tiny phials have remained unopen, deep inside her pockets.

It is quite late, she has been pouring over potion books today. Anything that could stop the nerves acting up. She knows he has those dreams and she knows many around the castle does. If the war has truly taught students some spells. Silencio and Muffliato are at the top of the list. Her back hurts. Her shoulders are stiff. The library is now absolutely deserted. She gets up from her chair. She is at 'her nook'. The 'her place' still smells of old parchment, old books, and her perfume. She makes for the bay window that overlooks the grounds of Hogwarts. A lone candle throws a small yellow drop of reflected on the foggy glass.

Most of these long uninterrupted nights, she has been feeling the presence of someone else. It does not bother her. Torment her. It is just there. In the beginning, she was worried it was some students still adamant to win her favours. But many of them have found solace in the arms of someone else. Now, she has settled for a shy ghost. Yes, some spirit, who feels it should be with her as long as she is alone. Sometimes she keeps up those signature smells of fresh green apples. Most of the days, there are significant traces of firewishkey, broom wax, and cologne. She has looked around. But in her heart, she never wishes to find out.

Standing closes to the window, she peers into the night outside. It is a starry night, somehow. The mist has settled near the grounds, and there are small patches of fluffy clouds, but stars have dared to shine brighter. There is a half-moon smiling ruefully. And there! On the reflective surface of the glass, she notices the gradual appearance of a face. As if someone has canceled the disillusionment spell. Tousled platinum blond hair, stormy blue eyes. Bruised face, healing cuts, wounds, and yellowish-green patches. Her eyes had grown wide. Her breath grows shallow, casting a small misty patch over the glass pane. He continued to stare at her reflection. And she dares not to turn and face him.

He slowly walks closer and closer still. She brings up her hands, palms resting over the glass to support her weight. He is now standing mere inches away from her. If she leans back a little, she can rest her head on his chest. If he leans forward, he can dare to rest his chin over her head. If they allow each other, they can dare to melt in a warm innocent hug. She thinks she can allow that. His eyes are no longer casting the golden glow from the candle. They both are now bathed in the soothing neon blue moonlight. Then he dares. Gradually brings up his pale hands. He leans over a minuscule fraction of an inch. His hands ghost over her smaller ones, those are yet to move from the glass pane. Moments of indecisiveness cut through like shreds of glass getting embedded on naked skin. And they rest over hers. Like soft feathers over the blades of spring grass.

His thumbs start their hypotonic dance over the side of her trembling palms. Two tiny letters of "g" one on the side of each of her palms keep appearing and disappearing. He must have soiled his hands in dirt and dust. The letters are thus written in greyish soot. Draco Lucius Malfoy takes a shuddering breath. Slowly he feels the warmth creeping up his dancing fingers, his muscles, bones, nerves and blood vessels. And finally making its way into his numb barely beating heart. And within his outstretched arms, Hermione Jean Granger, secluded from the world, melts like a candle, after burning relentlessly for years together.

* * *

A/N: Okay? what else to write about?


	11. High on Ecstasy I

It is a challenge for me to myself. Make the most wanted characters of Harry Potter fandom do anything everything with each other but without uttering a word. Can I do that? Let me see. If I am not making the lips move to talk. I better work extra hard on the other senses, of sight, of touch, of smell and of hearing.

To all the reviewers a hearty thank you.

Now on to the story.

* * *

_**Disclaimer**_: I own nothing, but my thoughts of AU and OC, the rest all belong to J K Rowling. My mind lives in the Harry Potter fanfiction world though my body is still thankfully anchored in the monotonous reality of existence. My themes, plotline, and storyline may, therefore, get indirectly influenced by many of the brilliant fanfiction writers on this site. And I humbly bow to such creative genius who give me much needed literary pleasures to see through the toils of mundane life. Lastly, I don't have a beta, so please be merciful. Reviews would encourage this introvert writer to peep out of her literary closet.

* * *

**High on ecstasy**

8th Year  
Hogwarts

They were celebrating. The castle, its professors, its ghosts, its elves and of course each and every single student had gathered in the newly renovated Great Hall. Cheering, howling, whistling, dancing, laughing in celebration. The victory was theirs to cherish. She had just managed to bottle down the festive mood. She could not have given it a slip. She was the Brain of the Golden Trio. Harry and Ron had come down to attend. But they were busy with their dates. She had danced with a few coaxing male students, but she could not carry on the pretense.

He had seen her from across the hall. Beauty personified. She was prettier than her smaller self, twirling in the arms of one Victor Krum. Today, even in her ocean green gown, simple yet accentuating her curves subtly, she was pure and sparkling. He had no desire to be here. A fallen disgraceful Slytherin Prince. But the Headmistress had ordered each and every student to attend. Thus, he lured at one forgotten corner. Watching- People smile, dance, kiss and enjoy life. She was not laughing tonight. Her eyes were sad, though she did try to listen to whatever the other girls were blabbering around. He could not continue watching her struggle. He had decided to slip away.

She had watched him, enter with the other Slytherins. They had been sharing a common living space. There was a handful of them, so they were given separate rooms, a comfortable common room, bathrooms like prefects were entitled to. She caught him watching her when she had walked into the common area. Neville had been her date for the night. Honestly, just friends deciding to look out for each other. Their eyes had met before the herbology genius and Nagini slaying knight had walked up to her. And she had felt the spark of fire igniting in the depths of her dying soul. His eyes had roamed over her frame, and hers had mirrored his movements. Appreciation, adoration and a genuine wish of wellbeing had transpired.

Thus, when she had caught his blond head, walking towards the door, she had to excuse herself. He had grown taller over the years. And following him, without running was difficult. He had gone up the moving stairs, unmindful of where they were hovering too. And she had followed. Never for once had he looked behind. They had finally got down into a deserted corridor. The scorns here did not light up at the approaching footsteps. Only the moonlight peering through the stained windows had cast a bluish hue to give this stretch of the corridor the required luminescence.

They had heard a buzzing sound coming from behind. And both had looked back in horror. Peeves the Poltergeist, was once again up to some mischief. She was so caught in the moment, that she had failed to notice him coming back to her. He had grabbed her hand, and before she could utter a word, he had placed his palm over her open mouth and had pushed her into the nearest cupboard.

Within the small space, they had stood close. He had her pinned to the wall, and his tall frame and his dark robes had made it difficult for anyone to notice them at first. He had felt her lips move below his palm. She had felt him breathe hard over her forehead. Their proximity had begun sizzling, like a strike of a match, that grew into a small fire, and finally had grown strong enough to set ablaze a forest.

For him, she was his flavor of ecstasy. His doom, and his path to attain nirvana. His elixir to life, and his torchbearer through the caves of hell. His heart was pounding inside his ribcage. And her pulse was racing along. His ears were ringing, and so were hers. Their combined buzzing had made them sway back and forth. He could have lost his balance if she had not grabbed on to his firm shoulders. She might have hit her head on the stone wall if he had not placed his other hand behind as a cushion. The scent of green apple mixed with cocoa butter. The wax of broomstick mingled with lavender. The tang of sandalwood aftershave got snatched by fresh honey. Newly grown grass masked the pungent smell of firewhiskey. Strawberry sinfully dipped themselves in a barrel of male musk. And sugar quills took the ultimate plunge into a pond of the feminine essence.

Their chests had brushed against each other a million times in this small confined space. Their breath had hitched in unison at the realization. They both had each other intoxicated. She had kept flexing her fingers over his heaving shoulders. Driving him mad, dragging him closer to living life once again. His fingers had grabbed at her hair, weaving each long digit into those tangles, and finally his fingers had started scratching her scalp in hypnotic circles.

She was the first one to feel a drop fall on her forehead, and travel down into her eye. She had to blink hard to fight against it. Then she had heard him cry. Muffled heaves, waking sobs. His palm over her mouth had not yet budged. And she had joined him to share his burden of remorse. For the ones to died fighting. For the ones who were slain. For those students who won't return, for those precious lives lost. And for their own innocence strangled to death in the hands of Greed. Her tears had soaked his palm wet, bit by bit. But he could not make himself remove it. Or he would lose this divine moment in the abyss of oblivion.

Moments had passed. They never heard Peeves. It might have missed them. Feeling exhausted and heady, he had lowered his head over her forehead. His nostrils had flared. Her scent had once again ensnarled him. He could not name one delicacy that had his tongue roll like it was wavering inside the cavity of his mouth, right now. He would give anything to taste her again. The taste of lingering chocolate on her lips had kept him sane all these months. But he was now "the vanquished" and she was deemed "the victorious Queen of the Light".

But this pull. This bewitching primal call of his musk had made her strain herself up against him. Inch by inch she had stood on tip of her toes. She would have to thank Merlin for making her wear flats today. He had likewise lowered his head, indecisive and uncertain. Their noses had brushed against their sides. Tingling the nerves below. She had flexed her fingers once again, this time determined not to let him vanish away. He had grabbed her head firmly his fingering digging fiercely, in case she would turn into a figment of his millions of unsatiated dreams.

Draco Lucius Malfoy had succumbed to the scents of Hermione Jean Granger and had planted a chaste yet meaningful kiss over his palm that still barred her voice. Hermione Jean Granger had reciprocated with the same underlying passion. Tilting her head up, brushing her nose against his, breathing in his heady musky exhalation, capturing his essence in her lungs, she had kissed the underside of his sweating palm. In this darkness, high in each other's ecstasy, they had given a name to their mutual remorse. And the twin puckering sounds had celebrated their birth by echoing through the closed walls of a forgotten cupboard in a moonlight deserted corridor of Hogwarts.

* * *

A/N: Came back to this fic after a poignant pause, thoughts shared will drive me to write more.


	12. High on Ecstasy II

It is a challenge for me to myself. Make the most wanted characters of Harry Potter fandom do anything everything with each other but without uttering a word. Can I do that? Let me see. If I am not making the lips move to talk. I better work extra hard on the other senses, of sight, of touch, of smell and of hearing.

To all the reviewers a hearty thank you.

Now on to the story.

* * *

_**Disclaimer**_: I own nothing, but my thoughts of AU and OC, the rest all belong to J K Rowling. My mind lives in the Harry Potter fanfiction world though my body is still thankfully anchored in the monotonous reality of existence. My themes, plotline, and storyline may, therefore, get indirectly influenced by many of the brilliant fanfiction writers on this site. And I humbly bow to such creative genius who give me much needed literary pleasures to see through the toils of mundane life. Lastly, I don't have a beta, so please be merciful. Reviews would encourage this introvert writer to peep out of her literary closet.

* * *

**High on ecstasy II**

8th Year  
Hogwarts

They had once again made him a target of their pranks. She was honestly fed up with the way things were dragging on. Nearly half of the term had gone by and the returning students were still claiming their share of revenge from the biggest bully Hogwarts had ever seen. She had a shouting match with Harry the other day at Hogsmeade. And Boy who lived had left the Three broomsticks, reeling with half baked angry excuses. She had put her foot down; unlike others she would give him a second chance. A chance she knew he had been begging for.

This time the Gryffindor table was beating their chests, they had sullied the fallen prince and had managed to rub his face in the dirt, the only place where he belonged. The Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs had added more fire to the rumor mill. Some said, he has successfully maimed, and the others wove fantastic tales of casting jinx at him that made him shred off his platinum blonde hair. She had to escape from their constant chattering. She indeed had, supplied an off-handed excuse of" going to the library", and had dashed off.

This time she had found him, in a deserted room, that could have functioned as a small hall for the staff to meet, but perhaps a century ago. His lips were bleeding. He had bruises all over his face, his robes were torn and his shirt askew. His hair could have been pulled at all directions; his forehead was sporting a nasty cut. She could see his chest heaving, his body rocking. He was scared and forlorn. Her footsteps had made him jump on his feet. His wand was out in his hand. But he had kept it pointed at the floor. She had whimpered. So, had he.

They had simply dashed forward to hug each other. Alive. Warm. Comfort. Finally grounded in one place. The greatest of enemies, the biggest rivals, indeed it was possible, none but they themselves could justify each other. He had broken into an uncharacteristic sob, while he had buried his face, in her beastly wild hair. She had strained her body to make sure she was touching him everywhere possible. Rubbing her hand over his shuddering back, pressing his neck and easing her fingers into his hair, she had ensured, the only he was to know in this empty space was that he had her to count on.

She had felt his long arms circle around her small frame. Had felt him draw her in further. And had felt his nose digging into her neck. Tears had tickled down her shoulders. She barely remembered how her robes had got unclasped. His muffled sounds had torn at her heart. Why could they not see, what all he had to go through? Yes, he had been a bully, an utter bastard. And, she was the first person to vouch for how vile he had behaved with everyone back then. But the war had changed each one of them. And perhaps, he had changed much before things had started turning grim.

That year when he had got the death eaters smuggled into Hogwarts, he had grown quiet, thoughtful and lost. And how could she forget that singular encounter at the Perfect's Bathroom? Since that day, her heart had started crying for the pain he was going through. She knew beyond what words to convey. And she had seen his eyes dart like a fugitive rat. He was living a trapped life. Unknowingly, she had started rocking both of them. Humming a childhood lullaby in her head as she had held him tighter.

It was then she had felt his hands move in sync with her soothing circles. Easing her taunt back muscles, massaging away her built-up stress. Until now, she did not realize the weight of the huge burden of grief she had been carrying over her. She had failed to moved past that guilt. The guilt of a survivor. And here was a man defeated in purpose and belief, still considering himself able enough to ease her burden. He had gone and broken that rusty lock hanging over her caged up heart. Turning his head slightly, he had rubbed his nose at the crook of her slender neck. And had planted a minute kiss, right on the slight curve. His lips had remained over that small patch of wet skin and that had undone her. Still holding onto him for support, she had started wailing. No there was nothing left to be embarrassed about. Now they were both equal. Starting afresh with every ounce of dignity lost.

She had felt his hands roam over her shaking body, and in no time had picked her frail form. Balancing her weight on his arms, he had managed to nudge her legs apart and she had wrapped them about his waist. To hide from invisible watchers, she had hidden her face at the curve of his neck this time, letting her tears wash his sinful pale skin. Wrapped about each other, they had continued to cry together.

Their individual flavors of love potion had once again started mingling into the thick damp air on this closed up place. Though, she was past recognizing the magic at work. She had cried over her parents, over those who had died, over the fading friendship she had with the others in her year. She had started preferring his presence. Even hidden away in such empty places. She desired to have him holding her just like this. Perhaps even kiss her over. Would she mind? There was still time. There were still days left. Months to live first. And they had agreed mentally through stolen glances, they would see to each other's needs. They would be around to hold each other, just like now.

She had heard him growl. She had felt him stir. And she had experimentally squeezed her legs. That first contact had made them groan in unison. But they would take it slow. They had many cracks in their souls to sew back together. They had nightmares to deal with. They had a history to burn down to ashes. But this time, she wanted to take back a souvenir with her, to remember this moment.

So, she had allowed herself to relax back into his strong arms. His fingers were pulsing like hot iron as they had been nestling her neck. He was a snake, and could slither in through her unruly mane. Why was she even surprised at that? But she was a lioness. She had to remind him that crucial bit of information.

She was the first one to shift. The first one to place a resounding kiss over that soft layer of pale skin right below his flushed ear. She had heard his breath hitch. And that was her cue. Rolling the tip of her tongue right over the wet patch, she had caught the marked area in between her teeth. His growl and a shuddering moan had rolled out in waves of primal desire. Without breaking the skin, she had marked him. he belonged to her. He would sport a certain love bite. And let the world be damned if they even thought of harming him again.

He had reciprocated by twisting his fingers into her hair and bring up her face close to his, their noses were barely touching. His burning grey eyes were demanding explanations. But she was not playing this game according to his rules. She had brought her hands up, trapping his still bruised face within her palms, she had cast a wandless, silent healing spell. Her eyes had glinted as she had watched those bruises cuts and wounds close and new skin cover up those flows over his perfectly sculpted face.

In gratitude he had closed his eyes. And she had lowered his face, so that she close touch his forehead with her lips. He had allowed her ministrations this time. Holding her close to his body. Giving her legs another squeeze, bringing their cores close together once again, she had fed the fire of desire that much-needed fuel called unsatiated want. Right between his platinum brows, above his pointed nose, she had darted her tongue out to trace a definitive "g". His favorite letter. And the sneaky snake had done the same, right under her jaw. A wet letter "g" etched over her soft skin, just above her throat.

Hermione Jean Granger had pushed at him, making him fall back. Draco Lucius Malfoy had unceremoniously dropped the most prized possession of his life. One on his back and the other on her knees. Like two prowling beasts of the wild, they were marking their territory. Their eyes had thrown the open challenge. The fight to stake a claim on each other. The winner would brand the loser as "Mine".

* * *

A/N: You hate it, you like it...but you cannot live without it. Tell me, why must I not end things right here, right now? Or... and maybe, I should reconsider not marking this complete.


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